Something old, Nothing new, Someone stolen
by Harriet Vane
Summary: . . . the Van was blue. The title field was too small . After attending a wedding, Shawn and Juliet find themselves prisoners in the back of a van – while Gus and Lassiter follow a confusing set of clues in hopes to find them.
1. Prolog

This is the prolog to a completed 6 chapter story. I will publish on chapter each Friday for the next few weeks in an attempt to drive off the horrible anxious anticipation for the 4th season of Psych in August. Comments and reviews are always appreciated.

This story occurs after "An Evening with Mr. Yang," though I don't believe there are any spoilers for that, or any other episode. The characters are not mine. They belong to whomever they do (in the age of mass media conglomerates, I'm not even going to pretend to know who holds the copyright.) I'm not making any money—and so on and so fourth.

Please enjoy.

**Prolog **

Juliet looked stunning. Though this "small" family wedding included eight bridesmaids, most of them single. Shawn barely noticed any of them.

He did notice that the seventh groomsman had an earbud in on ear and was obviously listening to the UCSB game. He also noticed that the step-mother of the groom was only pretending to cry, while the great-aunt of the bride was crying in earnest. He also noticed that the best man was checking-out the third bridesmaid, while she was checking out the minister—who happened to be a woman. Shawn looked forward to seeing how that played out at the reception. But, mostly, he noticed Juliet.

The bride had been kind enough to let each of her eight bridesmaids choose their own cotton-candy pink dress—which was fortunate because the maid-of-honor looked anorexic, the fifth bridesmaid had a figure like a cotton ball and the eighth bridesmatron (if wedding rings could be trusted) seemed to be 10 months pregnant. Most of the women had found a cut that suited them tolerably--with the exception of the second bridesmaid who, though clearly in her thirties, had chosen a tight, short, shiny dress designed for 16-year-olds--but the color suited no one, except for Juliet.

Her floor length strapless gown was cut close to her body, but the loose fabric (chiffon, Shawn guessed, but it may have been some sort of silk blend) rippled in the warm wind blowing off the mountains. And, particularly strong breezes played with the slit, exposing her right leg and silver strapy sandals, while the soft curls of her blond hair danced around her face. Shawn thought she was beautiful when she wore wrinkly pants suits and sloppy buns. Today, 'beautiful' wasn't a strong enough word to describe her.

At the end of the wedding, the groom kissed the bride. People clapped and cheered, and Juliet walked down the isle with groomsman number six. The small lapel pin on his tux indicated that he was the groom's frat brother, the faint smell of whiskey, mingled with Jules' soft floral perfume indicated that the celebration had started with the bridal party a while ago. So, when he met his date in the reception line, he was not at all surprised to see her smile melt as their eyes met.

"It was a lovely wedding, Jules," he told her with his usual feigned sincerity. "I found the lighting of the unity candle particularly moving. When I heard the first notes of _A Whole New World_, my eyes just teared up."

As usual, she ignored most of what he said. "Thank you so much for coming. I hope you don't mind, but I told Tim that you were my boyfriend—and that you were a cop—and that you were a back-belt in Karate."

"Well, I am a master at Pat Morita trivia, so I guess that's close enough. Did you know that he had an episode of Spungebob Squarepants dedicated to him?"

She offered him her classic "what the hell are you talking about" expression, with the wide eyes and the slightly open mouth. Shawn found it adorable.

"Which one is Tim?" he asked, glancing at the groom's men around him. "The one with the Pinocchio-like nose, or the one with the wrestler's neck?"

"The tall one," Juliet said, shivering in disgust.

"So you told him I was staying with you—excellent, I'll just have to run out and get a toothbrush."

"No," Juliet protested. "I told him my boyfriend had to work tomorrow, so we were going home early."

"So, not only am I a cop, but I'm a cop who can't get the weekends off," Shawn whined. "Am I really that boring in your fantasies?"

"Excuse me," said high-crackling voice from behind Shawn.

"I'm talking to my girl-friend here," Shawn said, turning to address the short, old woman, but hoping Tim would hear.

"You're holding up the line."

"Am I?" Shawn asked, glancing at the row of annoyed people behind him. "I apologize. Of course, you'll all want to speak to Juliet, she is so charming." With that he leaned forward, stole a kiss before Juliet could think to protest, and quickly moved up the bridal party. When he reached the bride, he didn't kiss her cheek, as he usually did at weddings. He could still taste Juliet's strawberry lip gloss, and he didn't want to ruin it.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

The first thing Shawn noticed when he woke up was the pain in his leg. It was sharp and burning, not the kind of pain he could ignore. It occurred to him that maybe something set his leg on fire, or perhaps frozen it in ice while he was sleeping.

He opened his eyes to see what was causing the pain, only to discover that he couldn't see anything – which ruled out fire, but that was little comfort. Wherever he was, it was pitch black. That didn't seem like it could possibly be a good thing.

Shawn reached forward to see if his leg was frozen in a block of ice. It wasn't. It was, however, wet and sticky. It didn't take a brilliant mind to figure out that the pain was from a nasty cut, and that the cut was still bleeding. "It gets better and better," he muttered as he scanned his perfect memory and tried to recall what had happened—how he'd gotten there.

He remembered Juliet's cousin's wedding, Juliet in a bridesmaid dress, a brash and ridiculous challenge to Tim, the tall groomsman which, thankfully, Tim ignored. He remembered every word of each bland but affectionate toasts. He remembered that the coq a vin had been under-seasoned, but the raspberry cheesecake wedding cake had been perfect. He remembered insisting that Juliet grant him one dance before they left the reception. He'd said it was to keep up the 'dating' cover story. They both knew that wasn't the real reason.

He remembered the slight weight of her hand on his shoulder and the soft and subtle curve of her waist. He remembered feeling his heart skip a beat as she slipped her hand into his. He remembered the thrill she gave him every time she laughed at a joke. He remembered the smell of her perfume, like roses and sugar-cookies . . . and he realized he still smelled it.

"Jules?" He asked cautiously. His voice echoed off the walls surrounding them. Wherever they were, it was small.

Juliet didn't answer.

Shawn pushed himself up, so he was sitting. The floor beneath him was plastic, textured and vibrating.

He tried to grope out and learn more about their dark prison, only to discover that his right hand was handcuffed to a ring on the floor. His deep foreboding quickly turned to panic as he yanked on the cuffs. They didn't budge, but he did bruise his wrist.

He closed his eye and tried hard to remember what had happened. The dance had ended. Juliet made the rounds hugging aunts, uncles, brothers, sisters-in-law, nieces, nephews, and cousins. Shawn had been ordered to stay by the bar and wait for her. To pass the time, he flirted with the bartender, a rail-thin 52-year-old woman with a gravely voice and breath that smelled of cigarettes.

Juliet didn't let him drive home. She'd actually counted how many drinks he'd had and deemed them too many. Shawn considered it a compliment that she paid so much attention.

"I can't thank you enough for coming tonight," Jules had said as they left the reception hall. "You really saved me."

"From the lecherous Tim?" Shawn had asked as he basked in his role as savior.

"Tim?" Jules had laughed dismissively. "No. If it came to it, I would have broken his wrists if he tried anything. I meant with my grandmother, and great-aunt Cici. They have been dogging me for years to meet a nice man and settle down."

"Jules," Shawn had said with his false sincerity. "You know I wanted to ask your father before we announced our nuptials to your family. And at your cousin's wedding . . . it's a little gauche, don't you think?"

She'd laughed, which made Shawn smile. "If I hadn't brought a date they'd think I wasn't trying. But, of course, this wasn't a real date, I just meant . . ."

"A decoy," Shawn had supplied. "Yes, it's very important to deceive them—I see that now."

"I didn't actually lie to them," Juliet had insisted. "I just . . . failed to mention some things."

Shawn hadn't had a clever come back for that. Everything he'd thought of somehow referenced the fact that he had rejected her.

Juliet's mind must have been following the same path because she quickly changed the subject. "I'm sure you lie to your family sometimes," Juliet had insisted.

And . . . . and that was all Shawn could remember. He felt sure he'd had a clever comeback—he usually did. But he could remember what it was, or if he'd said it. And he had no idea how they'd gone from driving from Ballard to Santa Barbara on CA-154 to handcuffed in what appeared to be the back of a van.

"Jules," Shawn said again reaching around with his left hand, trying to find anything, a door, a window, a tool—but hoping to find her.

Nothing.

"Jules," he said louder. He'd been knocked out, maybe she was too. Maybe he could wake her up. "I know your there. I can s . . ." He almost said 'smell' but caught himself just in time, "sense you. You're in pain." It was a guess, but it seemed probable. "Please, just let me know you're ok."

There was a horrible silence. Then, softly, off to the left "Shawn?"

"Jules," Shawn said excitedly, scooting as close to her voice as his handcuffed hand would allow. "Are you all right?"

"My head . . ." she muttered. "I'm so cold."

"I'd come and help you, but I'm cuffed to the floor," Shawn said. "Can you move?"

"My hands are cuffed together," she answered. "But I think I can get over to you." She made a sound that was something between a grunt and a moan and communicated deep pain. "It hurts."

"I know, Jules," Shawn said empathetically. "I know."

"Do you know what happened?" Her voice was strained.

"I don't remember," he said, reaching towards her voice. "If you can reach my hand, I'll pull you here."

"Can you sense . . ." she started, but her voice gave out.

In the darkness, her hands found Shawn's. "I've got'cha," he said, wrapping his hand around hers, which were cold and felt so small.

He pulled her towards him. She gasped with pain and Shawn winced. But he knew they'd be better if they were together. He drew her to himself, pulling and arranging her limp body, still clothed in the beautiful pink gown—though it was probably torn and dirty by now—until her head was resting on his lap, and his free hand was running up and down her bare arms, trying to transfer warmth.

"Thank you, Shawn," she said once she was situated.

"Do you feel better?"

"No," she said. "But I'm not as scared."

"Well, that's good," Shawn said. "Because I was counting on you to get us out of here."

"What happened?" she asked.

"I told you, I don't remember," he said, trying not to sound worried. Juliet shouldn't have forgotten that.

"But, can you feel . . . ?"

"Feel?"

" . . . what happened. Can you sense it?"

"Sense," Shawn said with a dry laugh.

"Are the spirits telling you anything . . . or, or the vibrations . . . or . . ."

"No," Shawn said, his voice cracking.

"Why not?"

Shawn's mind raced. He considered, for a moment, coming clean. He was not a psychic; he'd never been psychic. He was just really, really good at noticing things and remembering details. It wasn't special, it wasn't magic, it was just natural intelligence and obsessive training by an overbearing father. But, it seemed cruel to break the foundation of her faith in him now. She was hurt and trapped—he would do anything he could to keep her from being hopeless too.

"It's the pain," he said, because it was the only thing he could think about besides Juliet. "My leg is all sliced up and . . . and the psychic energy your pain is causing . . . it's cacophonous. I can't hear the spirits."

"I'm sorry," Juliet said softly.

"It's not your fault, Jules," Shawn assured her. "Whoever it is that did this to us, it's his fault."

* * *

"Hey, Detective!" Gus said as he ran up to Lassiter on the steps of Santa Barbara police station. "Have you seen Shawn or Juliet today?"

"No," Lassiter replied, annoyance in his voice and gaze. "Why would I?"

"Well, Juliet is your partner."

"She has off today," Lassiter said. Adding, with _Dragnet_ dramatic emphasis, "I'm walking the beat alone."

"So, you haven't seen or heard from her."

"No. When Detective O'Hara takes the day off, she doesn't come in to work. It's irresponsible, I know, but she . . ."

"It's just that Shawn wasn't in the office this morning."

"So?"

"We were going to go to breakfast."

"I fail to see how this had anything to do with O'Hara's day off."

"They were together last night."

"What?!" Lassiter said, stopping and turning to look at Gus for the first time. "Why would she . . ." He froze, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and said, "I really don't want to think about that." He opened his eyes, shook his head, and started walking to his patrol car again, double pace. "You, know, I don't even want to know. It's none of my business anyways."

"No!" Gus said defensively, as soon as he realized what Lassie was thinking. "It's not like that," he insisted as he ran to catch up with the detective. "She asked him to escort her to a family wedding. She didn't want to be the only bridesmaid without a date."

"So she took Spencer?" Lassiter said, with obvious disgust. "She couldn't find someone better at a bar, or, I don't know, in one of the holding cells."

"He did it as a favor," Gus continued. "But now, Shawn didn't show up for breakfast, didn't go home last night, and their phones just go to voicemail. I'm telling you, something's up."

"Look, they probably just drank too much and decided to get a room somewhere."

"They would still answer their phones," Gus insisted. "It's almost noon. How much do you think they drank?"

"I don't know. Was there an open bar?"

Before Gus could admit that he didn't know either, Chief Vick yelled. "Detective Lassiter!"

Both men turned to see the woman running down the steps. She had a single leaf of paper in her right hand, and she looked worried.

"What is it, chief?" Lassiter asked, walking towards her. Gus followed.

"Thank goodness I caught you," she said as she handed the paper to Lassiter. "This just came in—a courtesy fax from our colleagues in the sheriff's office.

"O'Hara's car was found in a ditch near Ballard," the Cheif explained as she handed the fax to Lassiter.

"Ballard?" Gus said, craning his neck to see what was on paper. "That's where the wedding was."

"But the car was abandoned," Lassiter said as he read through it.

"See!" Gus said, "I knew something was not right."

"What are you talking about, Mr. Guster?" The chief said, acknowledging Gus's presence for the first time. "And, for that matter, why are you here?"

"Well, as I was trying to tell the detective, I think something happened to Shawn and Juliet."

"You think Mr. Spencer is missing too?"

"He didn't show up for breakfast this morning. And you know how he loves his pancakes."

"I think I should go check this out," Lassiter said. "Show the boys out in the boonies how it's done."

"Go," the chief said. "But remember, you are an observer. I don't want to get a call from the sheriff's department saying one of my detectives is out-of-line."

"She's my partner, chief," Lassiter said, once again milking the drama out of the words. "I'll find her."

"And Shawn's my partner," Gus said, breaking the tension Lassiter wanted to create. "I should go, too."

"No," the detective said, his voice low as he tried to hold onto the mood. "It could be dangerous."

"It's a car in a ditch, detective," the chief said flatly. "I don't see why you couldn't take Mr. Guster out of professional courtesy."

"Professional courtesy!" the detective said, his low voice dissolving into a whine. "Chief, he's not even the fake-psychic; he's the fake- psychic's sidekick."

"I am not Shawn's sidekick," Gus insisted. "We're partners."

"Take him," Vick said sharply. Then her expression softened, as she ordered, "and bring them back."

To be continued . . . .


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"So, my thought is that we've been shanghaied into the underground formalwear modeling circuit," Shawn said, mostly to hear the sound of his own voice.

The van had been still for a while—it was hard to say how long. Juliet was slipping in and out of consciousness. Shawn could feel dried blood in her hair, so he knew she must have received a blow to the head. He was terrified that she'd fall into a coma and never wake up. Shawn was trying very hard not to fall asleep himself. He was helpless enough, chained to the inside of a van with a throbbing, broken leg. He didn't to give their kidnapper any further advantage. Not that the kidnapper had shown himself yet. They'd been driving around for hours—or what felt like hours. Then, finally, the car stopped. For a while, Shawn and Juliet screamed at the top of their lungs, hoping to attract help—but no one responded.

So now they were just talking. Shawn sat with his back against the side of the van. His mangled right leg stretched out in front of him, his left leg, slightly bent, was a pillow for Juliet. His left arm was her blanket.

"I hear it can be vicious," Shawn continued. "Poor, devastatingly attractive people, forced to peddle designer knock-offs on the runway."

"I'm thirsty," Juliet muttered.

"Have you ever tried to walk in a knock-off Gravati?" Shawn asked, because it was a lot easier then telling her that there was no water. "They're murder on the arches."

"Because that's what I'm worried about," Juliet said. "My feet."

"Well, if I were you, I'd be worried about being sold as a model bride."

"A model bride?"

"Forced to parade knock-off Vera Wangs before cheap New-Jersey mothers."

Juliet laughed softly. "What do you think?" she asked. "Really."

"Really," Shawn said with a deep breath. "I think you looked stunning in that dress."

"Shawn," she protested. She was the kind of girl who always preferred a straight answer to a compliment. So few women were like that—he adored her for it.

"I don't know," he admitted. "I've asked the sprits, but . . . I can't hear their answers."

"Could it have something to do with a case we worked together?"

"We've worked a lot of cases together," Shawn said. "I don't get a sense that this is related to any of them."

"None of them are going to court soon," Juliet continued, thinking through the problem. "And I don't think most of the criminals we've put away would have the clout to pull off something like this."

"You're wrong there," Shawn said. "This abduction is clever, but not complicated. It didn't take clout, it just took planning."

"What do you mean?"

"We were unconscious, just a few people, or one strong person, could have dragged us out of the car and put us in here. After that, it only takes one person to drive a van around."

"But who?" Juliet insisted. "What could someone possibly gain form holding us?"

"I'm not sure," Shawn said, seriously considering her question. "This doesn't feel like a revenge kidnapping. I mean, first of all, why kidnap? Why not just kill us? They obviously had the opportunity. For the kidnapper to get what he wants, we need to be alive."

"So what could he want?" Juliet asked. "Ransom?"

"That doesn't feel right either," Shawn admitted, adding cavalierly, "my collection of Speed Racer memorabilia is impressive, but my father would never negotiate with kidnappers."

"I don't have any money either," Juliet said. "It just doesn't make sense."

"I'm serious, Jules," Shawn said. "Underground modeling. It's the only explanation that fits the facts. Why else kidnap us in formal wear?"

"Right after my cousin's wedding," Juliet said. Her voice started to sound excited. "The kidnapper could have know we'd be there . . . or at least that I would be there," she reasoned. "The 154 is the best road from Santa Barbara to Ballard, and it has a lot of rural stretches . . . the car won't be found till morning, which gives the kidnapper hours to make his escape."

Shawn listened and his mind raced. She was right. And he was right—he'd been right from the beginning. It was about Juliet in the dress. He was an after-thought, a mistake, or possibly decoy. What the kidnapper wanted was Juliet.

"That makes sense, doesn't it?" Juliet asked.

"Yeah," Shawn said, trying not to let his disturbing revelation show in his voice, hoping he could distract her before she figured out how much danger she was really in. "Perfect sense, like a scene from _Ruthless People_."

"Shawn, why do you do that?"

"Do what, agree with you?" Shawn asked. "Because your brilliant. And if my extensive travels have taught me anything, it is to always defer to someone smarter then yourself. Which, coincidently, is why Gus does all the baking, the man is a genius with baking powder. Or, maybe, baking soda. Or, possibly bicarbonate of soda . . . to be honest I don't know the difference."

"Why do you say ridiculous things when you should be serious?"

"I . . ." Shawn stuttered, "I don't know what you mean."

"Carlton said it's because you don't want to be taken seriously. He said, this way, if you fail, no one is surprised. He says it's how you protect yourself."

"Well," Shawn said, licking his lips nervously. "Isn't Lassie the budding psychologist?"

"He said your mother told him that."

"She would know . . ." Sawn muttered, trying not to sound as annoyed as he was. If he'd been her patient, her penetrating analysis of his character would have been private. But, because he was her son, she apparently had no qualms broadcasting his insecurities and cooping mechanisms.

"I'm sorry, Shawn . . . " Juliet said. "It was really stupid of me to bring it up."

"Don't worry about it," Shawn said, hoping that the conversation would end.

"It's just," Juliet continued. "We're trapped in here, and I feel dizzy and nauseous and it hurts to breathe. I'm trying to keep it together, keep a clear head, but it's so hard to think. And I know you always make jokes and stuff, usually I like it, but," her voice broke. Shawn couldn't tell if it was from emotional or physical pain, nor could he think of any way to make either one better.

"I need you here, Shawn," she said eventually. "Right now, I need to know that you're here, with me. Not reliving a movie, or in some sort of psychic vision, or daydreaming about your childhood. I'm here and . . ."

"You're stuck in a moment you can't get out of," Shawn said. "And you don't want to be alone in it."

"Yeah," Juliet said.

"U2 references aside, I'm right here."

"Thanks, Shawn," she said, as she affectionately squeezed his forearm, which was draped across her chest. "We'll get through this together."

"You bet," Shawn said, with a confidence he didn't feel. "You and me. We'll get through this."

* * *

"We want the files on the Crystalline case, or the psychic dies," Gus read, as dread filled his chest. "Go to the computer room of the main branch of the Santa Barbara public library at 3:30 on Saturday, March 14th. Shred the files and you'll know where to find him. Don't try anything smart. We'll know, and he'll die."

The note was very carefully printed on a piece of paper from a yellow legal pad. The writer had obviously attempted to hide his or her handwriting by creating very precise block letters, all caps, and all 3 lines high. The note was written with a back marker, probably a Sharpie. For a handwritten note, it didn't seem to offer many clues.

Gus put the ransom note, carefully preserved in an evidence bag, back on the hood of the car, which was covered with maps of the area and other bits of evidence from the car crash, including one of Shawn's shoes, messy with blood, both of their cell phones, smashed beyond repair, and Juliet's badge and gun.

It appeared as if a car had driven Shawn and Juliet off the road and careening into a tree. According to the M.E., there were two people in the car, and both were injured. The passenger's leg must have been badly cut, if the blood and the ripped pants were any indication. And the crack on the driver's side window indicated head trauma.

"As you can see, it's a kidnapping," Deputy Cheznick, who had discovered the car, said. "I've called the Feds in from L.A.—but with this timeline, I don't know if we can wait."

"Three-thirty," Lassiter said, checking his watch. "That's only two hours."

"And it'll take us an hour to get there," Gus added. "We should leave now."

"We cannot destroy evidence," Lassiter said. "But if we can figure out which case they're talking about, we can smoke them out. Now, I don't remember any victims or suspects named Crystalline . . . but it sounds like it might have something to do with a meth lab. A quick search through the SBPD files . . ."

"It's not in the SBPD files," Gus said. "It's in the Psych files. Or it would be, if we kept files."

"What?" Lassiter said. "You mean this is about Spencer?"

"Looks like," Gus said, as the dread in his chest manifested into a mixture of horror, guilt, and fear. Horror, because it was just a matter of chance and timing that kept him from being the one with the crushed leg or head trauma, taken to God-knows-where for God-knows-what reason. Guilt, because Juliet had taken his place. And fear, because Shawn ran psych, and Shawn had a perfect memory. He didn't see a reason for keeping files, so—other then the necessary receipts and documents for tax and payroll, no files were kept. And Gus doubted that the kidnapper was that interested in destroying the deposit slip for The Crystalline Temple's $5,000 check.

"Then kidnapping Detective O'Hara was just an after thought," Deputy Cheznick said. "Or a mistake."

"I knew Spencer was trouble," Lassiter muttered.

"You knew that being with Shawn would get Juliet kidnapped?" Gus asked, skeptically.

"I knew it would lead to no-good," Lassiter asserted.

"This is not Shawn's fault," Gus said hottly. "The evidence show's he wasn't even driving!"

"Gentlemen," Deputy Cheznick said forcefully as he stepped between Gus and Lassiter. "We've got a tight deadline. I think you'd better tell us about the Crystalline case, Mr. Guster."

"Fine," Gus said, taking a step back and a deep breath. "But I don't understand what it could possibly have to do with all this."

"You don't have to figure it out," Lassiter said, "Let the real detectives do that."

Gus threw Lassiter a spiteful look, then he began to explain. "Last month, The Crystalline Temple of Spiritual Enlighten hired us to find out if someone was trying to destroy there church, or . . . temple building, I guess. There had been several small fires, which any number of members could have started."

"The Crystalline Temple of Spiritual Enlightenment," Lassiter muttered. "Sounds like a cult."

"They're basically a group of burned-out hippies. It turned out, the eight-year-old son of one of the members was starting the fires. He was bored during their services, or séances, or meeting . . . or whatever, and he just wanted the smoke detectors to go off so they'd have to evacuate."

"So there was a budding arsonist and you didn't contact the police?" Lassiter said angrily.

"There was a bored kid whose parents swore he'd never do it again. The temple leaders were happy. That's was it."

"Obviously, you didn't dig deep enough," Lassiter accused. "A real detective would have gotten all the facts."

"Shawn did get all the facts," Gus insisted. "It just so happens that the facts are boring and don't add up to a kidnapping." It occurred to Gus that Shawn would not have used the word 'kidnapping'. He'd undoubtedly say 'copnapping' or 'psychnapping.' Suddenly, Gus didn't want to argue anymore.

"Guys, guys," Deputy Cheznick snapped, looking scornfully at both of them. "There's a time issue here. Now, I think we need to divide and conquer. Guster, do you have any qualms giving the kidnappers your files?"

"I'll give them what we have," Gus admitted. "It's not much."

"Good. We'll hedge our bets by tracking down anyone and everyone connected to The Crystalline Temple of Spiritual Enlighten," Cheznick continued. "If you don't get them at the drop, we'll get them where they live.

* * *

Shawn was startled into wakefulness when the van jerked into motion. They were moving again.

"Jules," Shawn said hoarsely, between two very parched lips. They'd been captive for a long time, maybe even a day, with no food and water. The hunger and thirst were almost as bad as the constant burning pain in his leg. "Something's happening, wake up."

She didn't stir.

They drove for what felt like ten minuets, while Shawn tried vainly to wake her. Then they stopped.

Shawn knew they could be anywhere, at a stop-light in downtown Santa Barbara, or San Diego or L.A. for all he knew, or they could be out in the wilderness breaking for a bear crossing the road. In any case, his only hope of rescue was to be noticed.

He banged on the wall with his free hand and yelled, "Help! Help!" as loud as his hoarse voice could manage.

He stopped yelling when he heard the clack of a lock releasing. Shawn hoped it was someone coming to save them, but he knew it was probably the kidnapper, showing his face at last. Either way, Shawn had to see everything and he had to protect Juliet.

The side door of the van slid open, and Shawn was blinded by the sterling light of an afternoon sun—but he didn't close his eyes. He forced them to focus on the dark figure silhouetted in the doorway. Whoever it was, he was large. He was at least six-two, with broad shoulders and a thin waist. Shawn knew immediately that this man hadn't been at the wedding, he wasn't a guest or part of the serving staff. He was wearing a black turtleneck, black leather gloves, dark blue jeans, and a ridiculous mask.

"Nixon?" Shawn asked as the man climbed into the van. "How clichéd. Clinton, I would have been original. Reagan or Carter, I would have respected. But tricky-Dick? I can't take you seriously wearing that."

"I'm here for the girl," the man said. His voice was muffled and indistinct, as if he were talking through a medical face mask as well as a molded plastic head of the 37th president. The kidnapper obviously didn't want his face or voice to be recognized, which meant that he was probably someone they knew.

"You can't have her," Shawn said, pulling Juliet, who was still unconscious, closer to himself and wrapping his arms around her bare shoulders. "She's a democrat."

"Give her to me and I won't hurt you." Since Juliet was the target, it seemed likely that it was someone Juliet knew, but Shawn didn't think it was someone she knew now. He was sure she would have mentioned a stalker or menacing neighbor.

"I'm not so much worried about me," Shawn said.

"You should be," the man insisted ominously as he pulled a handgun from behind his back. He was probably someone from her past, and someone who knew her family well enough to know about the wedding. That excluded all criminals and casual friends.

"What, you're going to shoot the guy with a mauled leg and a hand cuffed to the wall. That's sporting."

"Let go of her." This was an old family friend who hated Juliet, but didn't want to kill her . . . . which, Shawn realized, meant the kidnapper might just love her too.

"I see now why you needed to kidnapped her," Shawn insisted coolly, even though his palms were sweating and his pulse was racing. "You're a coward. She knows it, and she rejected you. But the thing is, nothing you will ever do can change that. So, even if she didn't hate you for kidnapping her, and whatever other twisted things you have planed, she'll hate you for that."

Shawn's accusations hit a nerve. The man lunged forward, slamming the but of his gun into Shawn's temple.

Shawn screamed; he couldn't help it. Nor could he keep his hands from flying to protect his head from a second blow, which left Juliet unprotected.

Shawn felt the kidnapper pick Juliet up and start walking to the door. He flailed with his left leg, trying to kick the man, but his world was spinning and he couldn't connect. Soon, the van door slid shut. Shawn was alone in the dark and, even worse Juliet was alone with her kidnapper.

To be continued . . . .


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"I can't believe we're shredding evidence," Lassiter muttered as they approached the shredder in the computer room of the main branch of the Santa Barbara public library at 3:28.

"It's not evidence," Gus reminded him. "It's just a few temple bulletins, a copy of our bill, and recipes for all the smoothies we bought form the Temple's organic juice bar."

"Even if the case was as banal as you claim it was, they're being handed over for ransom now, which means they're evidence in a kidnapping case."

"Then you can pull them out of the trash and enter them into evidence after we find Shawn and Juliet."

Lassiter smoldered, but didn't stop Gus from shredding the pieces of evidence, one at a time.

"So, now what?" Lassiter asked after the last receipt was confetti.

"I don't know," Gus said nervously scanning the room full of normal-looking people. He'd seen plenty of normal-looking people who turned out to be thieves, or kidnappers, or worse. He knew it could be any of them.

"Um, excuse me," a young man standing in the doorway said. He was wearing a bike helmet and a messenger bag, which both carried the logo Eco-Deliveries. He was scanning the room too, but his eyes didn't rest on anyone. Gus got the feeling that he didn't know who he was looking for.

"Is there a mister," The delivery boy looked down at a card in his hand. "Mister Lucian T'Sky, here?"

"Dude, this is a library," a man working on a computer near the door said. "Shut up."

"I've got a message for Lucian T'Sky."

"That's me!" Gus said suddenly. "I'm Lucian T'Sky."

"What?" Lassiter asked. "No you're not."

"Yes, I am," Gus said as he started walking quickly across the room towards the messenger. "That's how Shawn introduced me to the people at the temple."

"Why does he do that?" Lassiter asked rhetorically, as he followed Gus.

"What's the message?" Gus demanded once he reached the bike messenger. "Where do I sign?"

"Um," the messenger said. "You don't need to sign. I'm just supposed to tell you," he looked down at his card "Blue Van, Airport Parking, Level 4."

"Blue Van, Airport Parking, Level 4?" Lassiter asked, furious. "Who are you? What do you know about Detective O'Hara!"

"Be quiet," The man at the computer said. "We're trying to concentrate."

"And I'm trying to save an officer's life," Lassiter snapped back. "So why don't you be quiet?"

The man huffed and pushed himself out of the chair. "I'm getting the librarian," he said as he pushed past them towards the door.

"I have half a mind to arrest that guy for interfering with an investigation," Lassiter muttered.

"Detective," Gus said sharply, pulling Lassiter's attention back to the case at hand.

"Right," Lassiter said, turning back to the bike messenger, who'd grown pail and was looking around nervously, as if he expected the Rules for Computer Use on the wall to let him know what to do. "Listen buddy, you may think you're being clever, but I'm on to you. Now if you don't spill every thing you know about Detective O'Hara's whereabouts right now, I'm going drag you down town and . . . "

"Look, it's not my fault," the messenger stammered before Lassiter could finish the threat. "It's just a message. I deliver them. It's all I do."

"The kidnappers told us when to be here," Gus said, thinking quickly. "He must have sent the messenger to give us the location of Shawn and Juliet."

"Kidnapper?" the messenger said. "I don't know what's going on."

"We got to get to the airport," Gus said. "They could be there right now."

"Or it could be a trap," Lassiter said. "And this guy could be in on it."

"Well, we have to check it out," Gus insisted. "If you're not coming, I'll go on my own."

"Of course I'm coming," Lassiter snapped. "Let's hand this 'messenger' off to McNabb and hit the road. With any luck, will beat the Feds."

* * *

Shawn tried to think, but it was hard to focus. Still, there were facts, and facts were things he could work with. First, Juliet was young, and she was beautiful, and she was intimidating. Second, the kidnapper was buff, but cowardly—so the buffness was apparently a new trait, something developed recently. He'd probably been small as a kid, and, like Shawn, he'd learned how to manipulate situations—twist them so he could get what he wanted. After all, that's all the kidnapper had done, twisted a drive home into a nightmare. Third, the kidnapper had had a plan for Juliet, but he hadn't had a plan for Shawn. Why else would he just leave him, to die of dehydration, or blood lose, or to be rescued—the kidnapper didn't seem to care. That begged the question, why bother to kidnap Shawn in the first place? Why not just leave him in Juliet's car. There were many possible answers, but not any probable ones. He needed more facts.

His deep mediations were interrupted by voices. Soft, distant voices—but certainly the sound of people. And if he could hear them, that meant they must be able to hear him.

"Hey!" he yelled as loudly as he could, so loudly that it hurt his parched throat. "Hey! Help! I'm trapped in here! Help!"

The voices got louder and became distinguishable. He couldn't make out words, but he could understand tones. Lassiter was outside, and he sounded pissed off.

"In here Lassie!" Shawn screamed, trying not to laugh from relief.

"Shawn," another familiar voice yelled. "Are you all right?"

"Dad!" Shawn yelled, he suddenly felt less relived.

"We're gonna get you out of there, Shawn," Gus's voice added.

"I wasn't really worried about that," Shawn said softly—after all, there was only a door and a pair of handcuffs between him and freedom.

A moment later, the door slid open and bright California sunlight burst in.

Shawn winced and looked away from the blinding light, but had enough presence of mind to yell out. "He's got Juliet. I'm fine. You've got to find her. You have to find Detective O'Hara."

The two FBI officers and one paramedic that streamed into the van didn't seem to care.

* * *

"Gus!" Shawn was yelling from inside an ambulance. "Gus!"

"He's calling for me," Gus explained to the officer holding him at bay. They were in the far corner of the airport's shaded and stuffy parking garage. It was so far from any desirable parking spots that no one was around to gawk at the ambulance, SWAT van, and swarm of police cars. In fact, the only person restrained by the yellow police line around the perimeter was Gus.

"I don't care," the officer said.

"We're partners," Gus said.

"Where is Gus?" Shawn yelled again.

"He needs me," Gus insisted.

"He needs to go to the hospital," the officer responded.

"Guuuuuus!" Shawn yelled.

"Look, he's going to keep doing that until you let me go," Gus explained.

"He's got his dad and the paramedics," the officer replied dryly. "I'm sure he's fine."

"Then why is he screaming my name?" Gus asked.

As if to answer that question, a young paramedic ran up. "Are you Gus?" she asked.

"Yes, I am," Gus said proudly.

"Let him in," the paramedic told the officer. "The patient is freaking out. He won't agree to any treatment unless Gus comes and talks to him."

"I told you," Gus said smugly as the officer lifted the yellow tape and let him through. He was less smug as he walked past the crime scene. Chills flew down his back as they passed the unassuming blue van. It had no windows in the back, but he could look in through the open doors to the stark black interior where a small team of forensics experts were carefully dusting for prints and searching for fibers. The only distinguishing characteristic Gus could see was a set of handcuffs: one cuff was attached to an anchor on the floor, the other had been sliced open to free Shawn.

The evidence showed that Shawn had been in the van for almost 20 hours. Gus couldn't imagine 20 hours of pain and terror in the pitch-black. Shawn may have been throwing a hissy-fit after the experience, but Gus doubted he'd have been able to compose a complete sentence.

"Gus! Gus! Gus! Gus!" Shawn was yelling as his old friend approached.

"Shawn!" Gus yelled back, jogging the rest of the way to the ambulance. "I'm right here buddy."

"Great!" Shawn said excitedly. "I need you to get Lassie for me."

Gus froze as soon as he reached his friend, not because Shawn's request was ridiculous—he'd learned to expect that from Shawn—but because his friend looked worse then Gus had ever seen him. He was wearing a dirty, wrinkled dress shirt, while the right leg of his suit pants had been cut off at mid thigh. There must have been a particularly nasty cut on it, because it was wrapped in thick bandages from above his knee to mid calf. He was pale, with dry white lips and dark purple bags under his eyes, and he was holding an ice pack to a spot just over his left temple. Despite all this, Shawn looked eager, almost excited. He was sitting on a stretcher, leaning forward as if he was waiting for a chance to jump off. Henry was standing next to him, somehow managing to look worried and disapproving at the same time.

"Dude, you look terrible," Gus said.

"That's not important right now," Shawn insisted. "I need you to go get Lassie."

"What for?" Gus asked. "Do you need a police escort to the hospital?"

"I'm not going to the hospital."

"What are talking about?" Gus demanded. "You're dehydrated, sleep deprived, concussed, and I'm betting you can't walk."

"Which is why I have to get out there," Shawn insisted. "The kidnapper will never see me coming."

"Ignore him," Henry said gruffly, glaring at his son. "He's going to go to the hospital and rest, like any sane person would do."

"No I'm not," Shawn insisted, glaring back at his father. "I'm going to rescue Juliet, like any sane person would do."

Gus had known the Spencers long enough to know that it was dangerous to get in the middle of their fights. "I'll see if I can find Lassiter," he said, stepping away.

"And a burrito," Shawn called after him. "Lassie and a burrito."

It wasn't hard to find Lassiter, he was at the edge of a group of FBI agents, looking left-out and angry. It was even easier to convince him to go talk to Shawn, but when he reached the ambulance, the police officer growled, "What the hell do you want?"

"A burrito," Shawn said earnestly. "I really, really want a burrito."

"You pulled me away from an FBI briefing for this?"

"No," Shawn said. "But since you asked, I thought I'd give you an honest answer. What's going on over there?"

"The van you were kept in is listed as belonging to a Mr. Justin Keets, who happens to be diseased. They're in the process of tracing how it got here. They're also tracing all the cars that were in the lot," Lassiter said. "There were thirty-four that left in the window between the van's arrival and our arrival. "

"They can't tell from the security cameras which car the kidnapper took?" Gus asked.

"On the top levels they only have cameras near the stairs," Lassiter said. "The van is parked in one of the many blind spots."

"How did the kidnapper know to do that?" Gus asked. "Could he work for airport security?"

"The kidnapper isn't blind," Henry said. "Look around. It's obvious there are no cameras anywhere around here."

"Mr. Spencer," the pretty young paramedic who'd gone to fetch Gus interrupted. "We need to put in your IV."

"No," Shawn said, pulling his arm away from the young woman. "I don't have time for an IV."

"You need hydration, nutrients, and a pain medication," she said, holding up a clear plastic IV bag full of clear liquid which, presumably, contained all three.

"Then get me a Gatorade, burrito, and some Advil. I'm not getting an IV."

"Sir," the paramedic said, turning to Henry. "Can you please convince your son to accept treatment."

"Not likely," Henry grumbled. "He hasn't listed to me since he was seventeen."

"Correction," Shawn said. "I always listen to you, I just don't follow your advice."

"Spencer, I was in the middle of an FBI briefing," Lassiter said. "If you don't have anything important to tell me, stop wasting my time,"

"I don't waste time," Shawn insisted.

"That's all you do," Lassiter spat back.

"Juliet's in danger!" Shawn insisted furiously. "The FBI wastes time, with their stupid briefings and their evidence collection and their pointless questions about that freaky church with the great juice bar. What the hell was that all about?"

"The kidnapper wanted us to destroy those case files," Gus explained. "That was your ransom."

"Really?" Shawn asked. "That's the dumbest ransom ever. We don't even keep files. What did you do, burn the receipts for all those smoothies?"

"Shredded," Gus supplied.

"Look, the point is, I told them who has her and they just ignored me."

"You know who has her?" Lassiter asked, amazed.

"Well, know it was someone who wasn't at the wedding."

"Great," Lassiter said. There are approximately 92,000 people in the Santa Barbara metropolitan area. There were what, 300 people at the wedding . . ."

"More like 220," Shawn corrected.

"That leaves more then 91,780 suspects," Gus said.

"I don't suspect any of you," Shawn said. "So, really, only 91,777 suspects."

"Spencer!" Lassiter snapped.

"It's someone who knew about the wedding, knew she'd be a bridesmaid, knew she'd be there."

"But the ransom note was about you," Lassiter said.

"And it was a lame ransom," Shawn pointed out. "A totally worthless ransom. Don't you see? It's all about Juliet, and anything having to do with me was a diversion. This guy planed it out perfectly—and he thought on his feet. No one knew I was going to be there, but he used it as an opportunity to buy himself more time."

"I knew you would be there," Gus said.

"Ok, Gus, what psychopath did you tell?" Shawn asked.

"What about that girl you're seeing?" Henry asked. "Abigail."

"I didn't tell her," Shawn said.

"You didn't tell her you were going on a date with another woman?" Gus asked with a note of disapproval in his voice.

"It wasn't a date, it was a favor," Shawn explained defensively. "She asked me last week. She didn't have any time to get anyone else."

"I'm just saying, it's messed up, that's all," Gus said.

"Gentlemen," Lassiter interjected, enunciating very precisely. "Detective O'Hara is missing."

"The point is," Shawn said. "The kidnapper wasn't at the wedding but he knew about it. We need to know who knew about the wedding."

"Lots of people knew," Lassiter pointed out. "She talked about it all week."

"Ok, smartly pants, where was the reception?" Shawn asked. "What time did it start? When did it end? Where did the newlyweds go on their honeymoon? What was the house cocktail? Which hotels had discounted rooms for guests?"

"I don't know," Lassiter said peevishly.

"But the kidnapper did," Shawn pointed out. "Well, maybe not the cocktails. But he must have known everything else. He knew when she would be there, when she'd drive back and what route she would take. He knew everything."

"He probably knows the family," Gus said. "Or it could be one of the vendors."

"Vendors doesn't fly," Shawn said. "Juliet was targeted. He didn't just want a pretty bridesmaid or a woman with long blond hair and sparkling blue eyes. If that was all, he could have picked a much easier target—he wanted her."

"Have the FBI interviewed the O'Hara family?" Gus asked.

"No," Lassiter said. "They're busy with the . . . crystal . . . enlightened . . . temple . . ."

"The Crystalline Temple of Spiritual Enlightenment," Gus provided.

"That place has over 400 members and the head of the task force wants to interview all of them," Lassiter explained.

"Great," Shawn said. "Then they won't get in our way."

"Shawn," Henry said. "You are in no state to investigate a crime where you were the victim. I absolutely forbid it."

"You forbid it?" Shawn asked, turning to his father. "Has that ever worked?"

"I just got you back, Shawn," his father answered, in lower, if not softer, tone. "I'm not going to let you risk your life . . ."

"My life is not in danger!" Shawn insisted, not bothering to consider his father's concerns. "Juliet is the one in danger. And you know I can find her twice as fast as Lassie here, and about a million times faster then the feds! If we leave it to them, we're putting Jules at risk—and I can't handle that. We have to find her."

"As much as I hate to say this, he's right," Lassiter admitted grudgingly. "I think we need him."

"Really, Lassie?" Shawn asked. He appeared to be sobered and amazed by the detective's endorsement. "That . . . that means a lot to me."

"Get over it," Lassiter spat back. "I just want to find my partner."

"Right," Shawn nodded in agreement. "So, here's the plan. Dad, take me to my place. I can't interview suspects looking like this."

"You're going to take time to clean up," Lassiter asked, annoyed.

"Good point, I'm sure Juliet's worried mother will be able to think clearly about potential suspects when she sees how dirty and beat-up I am. That'll put her mind right at ease." Not missing a beat, he turned to Gus, "Do you still have those crutches from high school?"

"Of course," Gus said. "Waste not, want not."

"Great, I'll need them. And Lassie, can you please get me a burrito?"

"No, I will not." Lassiter said. "I'm not your delivery guy."

"And I haven't eaten all day!" Shawn snapped back. "I can't concentrate when I'm hungry, just ask Gus."

"It's true," Gus affirmed.

"Fine," Lassiter huffed. "I'll get you a burrito."

"Perfect, great," Shawn said, nodding and rubbing his hands together. Gus knew that he was building the courage to go through with their plan. Shawn was good at coming up with plans, but they always made him a little nervous. Plans could fail, and Shawn hated failure. And, if it did fail, it was possible that none of them would ever see Juliet again.

To be continued . . . .


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Shawn looked in the his reflection in Lassiter's tinted window and felt discouraged. A shower, clean clothes, and a burrito had done little to improve his appearance. His skin was still ashen, there were still gray bags under his eyes, and he couldn't hide the huge bluish-purple bump on his forehead where he'd been pistol-whipped. A particularly baggy pair of jeans hid the bandages on his legs, but that didn't count for much, because he couldn't walk without crutches. He was sure he was going to scare Juliet's parents—and that would make things harder.

"I thought there would be more people here," Shawn said as they pulled up to the O'Hara house. "There are always people here." The driveway was empty, the kids toys were picked up off the lawn, and most of the lights were off in the house. The only sign of life was someone moving in the kitchen. Shawn could see her silhouetted behind the thin yellow curtains.

Shawn tried not to feel nervous as he hobbled towards the door on his crutches. He hadn't protected Juliet when she needed him, what could he possibly tell her family? Lassiter rang the doorbell and Shawn started to steal himself. He would be empathetic, he would be composed, he would be honest but tactful.

Mrs. O'Hara opened the door. Her eyes were red from crying, and she was wiping her wet wrinkled hands on a black, white, and red checkered apron. Shawn suddenly found himself speechless.

"Detective Lassiter," She said. Her voice was guarded—she didn't know if she'd be getting good news or bad news. Then she saw Shawn. "Mr. Spencer! You're . . . You've found her then. She's . . . is she . . ?"

Shawn wanted to say something. He opened his mouth, hoping to explain that he'd tried to protect Juliet and he would find her soon, but his voice failed when he looked at the kind and earnest woman before him. Thankfully, Lassiter came to his rescue.

"Actually, Ma'am, we haven't found her yet," the detective said seriously and, somehow, apologetically. "Can we come in?"

"Yes, of course," she said, nodding—trying not to cry. "Please come in." Mrs. O'Hara led them past the living room and towards the kitchen, explaining. "I didn't realize people we're going to be coming here. Joseph is at the police station, you know . . . I thought if anything happened, he'd know. He wanted me to be with him, but I couldn't stand it there . . . sitting, waiting. So I came here to make the fruit salad for the gift-opening."

"A bridesmaid was kidnapped while driving home from the wedding, and their still having a gift opening?" Gus asked in disbelief.

"Well, we didn't tell Gina," Mrs. O'Hara admitted. "We don't want to rain on her day. I hope you don't mind if we talk in here. You can all sit at the table if that's all right. I just promised Lottie, mother-of-the-bride, my sister-in-law, that I'd have enough fruit salad for fifty people. I could back out, of course, but to be honest, I'm grateful for something to do – even if it's just cut melon. But, can I get you anything?"

"Is that pineapple?" Shawn asked, looking at a bowl full of the freshly chopped yellow fruit.

"Shawn," his father scolded.

"Please, Mr. Spencer, help yourself," the woman said—putting the bowl in front of Shawn and smiling at him sweetly but sadly.

"Thanks," he said, trying to smile back. But when he looked at Juliet's mother, all he could feel was guilty, so he let his eyes slip down to the pineapple.

"I have fresh coffee," Mrs. O'Hara continued, walking back into the kitchen and pulling brightly colored mugs out of a cabinet. "Or I could put some water on for tea . . ."

"We're fine," Lassiter said authoritatively, not bothering to see if Gus or Henry wanted anything. "What we really need is to talk to you."

"Oh," Mrs. O'Hara said, putting a mug down on the counter. She seemed intimidated by the table full of men in her kitchen, and she walked towards them cautiously. Again, Shawn felt like he should start, explain how Juliet was snatched from his grip and assure the older woman that her daughter was, at very least, alive. But again he couldn't quite form the words. This time, his father stepped in.

"Mrs. O'Hara, I'm Henry Spencer, Shawn's father. I understand what you're feeling right now. An hour ago, before they found Shawn, I was right there with you. But we're here because Shawn . . ."

"He had a vision," Gus chipped in. "He knows the kidnapper was actually targeting Juliet. He wanted . . ."

"I think he's in love with her," Shawn said, finally finding his voice. "When he . . . when he took her, I-I felt it. Passion, and frustration, and longing."

Mrs. O'Hara started to look horrified, on the edge of tears. Shawn spoke more quickly, trying to calm her down, "But I . . . I was able to establish a psychic link with Juliet. I know she's all right right now—I mean, she has a concussion and a few broken ribs—but she'll be OK if we can find her soon."

"The . . . the FBI?" Mrs. O'Hara said, turning to Detective Lassiter. "They said he wanted Shawn."

"The kidnaper threw then a red herring and the FBI bought it, hook line and sinker. Right now there're all sitting down with for lunch with some fried herring and a side of coleslaw . . ."

"Shawn," Gus said, drawing his focus back to the task at hand.

"The point is," Shawn said. "I think I can get an impression from the RSVP cards, if I could just see them."

"You think the kidnapper was at the wedding?" Mrs. O'Hara gasped.

"No," Shawn assured her. "I know the kidnaper was not at the wedding. But I'm pretty sure he was invited."

Mrs. O'Hara nodded. She looked overwhelmed, but she had grasped the essential information. "I'll call Lottie. I'm sure she would still have the cards, if you don't mind waiting."

They didn't have to wait long. Lottie did not have the cards, but the bride's sister, Clair, did. Luckily, Clair was actually in Santa Barbara picking up a batch of gourmet cupcakes for the gift opening. She was able to drop them off about 15 minuets after Mrs. O'Hara had made the call. When she asked why-on-earth they were needed, and needed so urgently, Mrs. O'Hara muttered something about a scrap book, pretended that she smelled something burning, and quickly closed the door.

"Here they are," she said, urgency in her voice as she handed the pile to Shawn. "Please, do what you need to do."

"Are they organized?" Shawn asked as he unwound the huge rubber band from the pile of cards, almost six inches tall.

"I don't know," Mrs. O'Hara said. "I didn't think to ask."

Shawn flipped through the stack quickly, then started to break the stack into five, approximately equal piles. "They're alphabetical," he explained as he pushed a pile to each person sitting at the table. "Find the 'regretfully decline's and put them in the middle."

Shawn sped through his pile quickly. He had three declines, but they were all simple and straightforward. He had a feeling the killer would do more then just decline. He'd have to insinuate himself into the wedding, even though he wasn't going to be there.

Once he was done with his pile, he grabbed the group in the middle and started looking at them, trying to notice everything the card could tell him. Miss Jennifer Bufoud wrote very neatly with a red pen, she was probably a teacher and couldn't get Friday off. Mr. & Mrs. Dominic Glazer wrote a short note expressing their regret. They had mailed their card from Boston—they probably couldn't afford to come so far for a wedding. Mr. Kevin Maloy didn't give any clues; he just checked the decline box with a back pen. Mr. Keith Roberts, on the other hand, gave Shawn lots of information.

"Oh!" Shawn said loudly, dropping the card and shaking his hands, as if they'd been burned. "That ones hot! I can't touch it!"

"How could it be . . .?" Mrs. O'Hara began to ask.

"He's reading its psychic energy," Gus explained. "Something about that card is giving off powerful vibrations."

"Let me see it," Lassiter said, grabbing the card.

"How can you bare to touch that, Lassie?" Shawn squealed, as he blew on his hands, as if to cool them off.

Lassiter rolled his eyes and read the card. "It's from Keith Roberts, and it's got a note. 'Gina, I'm so happy that you've found Bob. I wish I could be there but I've already pre-paid for a cruise around Alaska, and I won't get back until the 24th. Wishing you all the best.'" Lassiter put down the card and turned to Shawn, clearly annoyed. "Well, that doesn't seem incriminating."

"Doesn't it?" Shawn asked, glancing at Lassiter then returning his gaze to Mrs. O'Hara, whom he'd been watching the whole time. Keith Robert's name had upset her, and the more Lassiter had read, the more upset she became. "What do you think, Mrs. O'Hara?"

"I can't believe it," the woman said, her kindly voice had turned cold and hard. Shawn could tell that, under the table, her hands were clutching and twisting at the fabric of her apron. "He must have been the call she wouldn't tell me about. . ."

"Call she wouldn't tell you about?" Gus asked.

"Wednesday, when we were setting up at the chapel, someone called Gina's cell. She was yapping and yapping with him, I could hear her talking about Juliet—and you, Shawn. But when I asked who it was she got all huffy that her calls were none of my business. Gina is such a self-centered little princess some times. She knew what Keith was like, and she still invited him—probably just because he could afford a big expensive present."

"Tell us about Keith," Shawn said gently.

"Keith Roberts is the spoiled little son of one of Greg's business associates," Mrs. O'Hara explained. "Greg used to own this cabin up in the mountains. The Roberts had a cabin near by—so the kids knew each other pretty well. Still, the way Keith acted . . . I can't believe. . . "

"How did Keith act?" Shawn pressed.

"The summer between high school and college, Juliet spent two months up there with her cousins. They all had jobs at this little ice cream place, with Keith. Juliet says that they were just friends all summer. She said she could tell he liked her, but she didn't like him, so they'd just hang out and have fun. Then, one night, one of the tourists, a customer at the ice cream place, invited Juliet out. She accepted and they went to dinner. As they were walking out of the restaurant, Keith attacked Juliet's date with a baseball bat—screaming that she was his soul mate. Juliet . . . well, you know her. Her brothers had come at her with bats often enough. She was able to disarm Keith and pin him to the ground. Her young man was sent to the hospital. Keith was taken away by the police, but his parent's money got him out with only a misdemeanor and community service. Juliet came home early—more mad then upset. Keith sent her letters, but after the first one made her cry, I just threw out the rest. Again, I think she was more mad then anything else, but she had so much on her mind, with college just around the corner. I called his mother, asked her to do something with her son, but the letters kept coming. He sent then for years." Mrs. O'Hara shook her head, "I wouldn't have thought it of Gina. But then she never thinks of others."

Shawn looked over at Lassiter. Their eyes met, and the detective nodded. For the first time since Juliet disappeared, Shawn felt hopeful. They had a suspect.

* * *

Juliet opened her eyes and was surprised to see light. For a moment, she was confused. She'd expected darkness but she wasn't sure why. Then it came back to her: the van, the handcuffs, her head in Shawn's lap. If there was light, then they must be out. Which could be very good, or very bad.

"Shawn?" she asked.

"No, Juliet," a low voice said. "He's dead. But I'm here."

It was very bad.

Juliet turned her head towards the voice. She appeared to be lying on a cot in a small room, barely 6x6. The walls and the ceiling were painted white. The door was also painted white but it was an oval, and appeared to be airtight, though there was a small vent above it. It looked like a door on a submarine, or a naval vessel. On the wall opposite Juliet's cot, there was a gray metal cabinet and next to it, the kidnapper sat in an old wooden chair.

"Who are you?" she asked, trying to sound brave.

"Oh, don't be coy Juliet," he said, smiling at her—beaming at her. "I've know . . . known for years that we were soul mates. You must have felt it."

"Oh no," Juliet said. Only one boy had ever been hooky enough to say they were soul mates. And, he'd said it just after the police had arrested him for attacking her date with a baseball bat.

"I know you're not feeling well," Keith continued. "You had a rough night, and you need to rest."

"Did you kill Shawn?" Juliet demanded, choosing anger over fear.

"Shawn's in the past," Keith said darkly. "I think you should just forget about him. Now, I've got some soup for you."

"I'm not going to eat anything you give me, Keith," Juliet said furiously. "Tell me what happened to Shawn."

"Enough about Shawn!" Keith said, jumping to his feet. He towered over Juliet, lying on the cot. Her anger dissolved and all she could feel was fear, of the huge, deranged man, who had all the power.

He must of seen the effect he had on her because he quickly backed down. "I'm sorry, Juliet," he told her. "It's just . . . I get so jealous. You know that about me. I'll just leave the soup here. You can eat it when you're ready. I'll come back later, after we've both calmed down a little bit, and we can talk about the future." He stepped to the door and undid the latch.

"Keith," Juliet said, as he was leaving the room. "The only way you'll have a future is if you let me go right now."

"Feel better, my Juliet," Keith said, turning out the light. "I'll see you soon."

He shut the door and encapsulated her in darkness. Juliet stared into it, too frightened to close her eyes.

* * *

"Thanks, McNabb," Lassiter said just before he closed his cell phone. "Turns out, Roberts' alibi checks. He was on a cruise last week with his neighbor, Katherine Avala. The airline confirmed he was on a flight from Anchorage to LAX, then from LAX to Santa Barbara."

They were driving to Keith Roberts' house in Summerville. They'd reached his subdivision full of 1960's ranch homes and were now winding their way through twisting streets at a painfully slow 25 miles per-hour.

"Can't you go any faster, Lassie?" Shawn begged. "Doesn't this thing have sirens?"

"We don't know that it's an emergency," Lassiter said. "Besides there are kids in this neighborhood."

"Ah," Shawn sighed in disgust.

"Wait a minute," Gus said. He'd learned long ago to ignore Shawn's complaining. "Was Roberts at the airport at the same time as Shawn and Juliet?"

"As it turns out, his car did leave airport parking after the van arrived," Lassiter confirmed. "But that's not enough for an arrest."

"Are you kidding?" Gus asked. "That's a smoking gun right there."

"I left a message with Judge Hashaw, asking for a warrant," Lassiter continued. "Until we get that, all we can do is drop by his house and see if he's home."

"He wouldn't take O'Hara to his house," Henry said. "Far too risky."

"No, no," Shawn said. "His house is exactly where he'd take her. He's in love with her. He wants her to be his wife, or mistress, or part of his harem."

"He probably doesn't have a harem," Gus pointed out.

"The point is, he's not going to hide her in some abandoned warehouse—he's going to keep her close. That's why we were in the car all night. He couldn't risk someone in the neighborhood identifying him before he was supposed to be home."

"But, Shawn, he _wasn't home_." Henry pressed. "He was in Alaska when you were kidnapped."

"That's obviously a lie," Shawn said. "He'll explain how he fooled the airlines after we rescue Juliet and he confesses."

"Oh," Henry said sarcastically, "Did your psychic senses tell you that?"

"Think about it, Dad," Shawn insisted. "It's the only way this could possibly end."

The car was silent. Of course, they all knew that it could end in any number of ways, many of them tragic. But for once, they all wanted Shawn to be psychic. They wanted his prediction of a happy ending to be dead-on.

Lassiter pulled up to Roberts' house. It was bland ranch with a 2-car garage, white siding, and no landscaping to speak of. The grass was overgrown, as if it hadn't been cut for weeks and all the windows were dark.

"It doesn't look like anyone's home," Gus said, as they approached the door.

"No, he's here. I'm sure of that," Shawn called from the back of the group. Shawn hadn't used crutches in years—not since his two-month stint as a water-skiing instructor in Hilton Head. At the time, they'd been a great way to milk attention from concerned women. They'd been cumbersome and awkward then, but that just drew attention to his 'poor broken leg,' which had been exactly what he wanted. Now they were slowing him down, and it was driving him insane.

Lassiter reached the door first and rang the doorbell. By the time Shawn reached the stoop, there still wasn't an answer. "If he's our guy, he's probably beat it." Lassiter groused. "He must have known we would find him, eventually. He's got a three-hour head-start. I'll have to call the feds and set up a perimeter . . ."

"A perimeter?" Shawn asked skeptically. "That'd be, what, a 25,000 square mile area? I don't think so."

"Do you have a better idea?"

"Considering Keith Roberts is currently dozing on his couch, I'd say ring the door bell again."

"How can you possibly know that?" Lassiter demanded.

"Because his TV is on," Shawn said. "Listen, you can hear it."

The four men were quiet for a moment. The faintest sound of applause were audible.

"It's The Price is Right," Shawn said. "No one under the age of eighty-five would watch that. He must have fallen asleep in front of the TV. After all, he was out all night."

"Or he could have left the TV on by accident," Henry said.

"For two weeks?" Shawn asked. "Possible, but unlikely. Ring it again."

"Fine," Lassiter said, turning and ringing the bell again.

There was a pause, then a voice on the other side of the door groaned "I'm coming" and, a second later the door opened.

"Told you," Shawn said quickly.

"Can I help you?" Keith Roberts asked with a yawn.

Shawn saw immediately that this was the kidnapper. His build and voice were the same. Shawn's heart started racing and his mouth became dry as illogical fear rushed over him. And, the longer he looked up at Roberts, the more frightened he became, because the kidnapper was completely cool and composed. He must have recognized Shawn, he probably even recognized Lassie—but he didn't show it. He wasn't afraid that they had a warrant. He wasn't afraid that they had come to take Juliet back. Robert's was confident that his plan was still working—and his confidence shook Shawn's.

To be continued . . . .


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

"What's this?" Shawn asked, banging his crutch against a hatch on the ground of Roberts' back yard. They'd already turned Roberts' house inside out. There was no evidence—not a gun with Shawn's blood on the hilt, not a Nixon mask, not even papers indicating he'd bought a blue van or hired a messenger service. Throughout the search, Robert had followed them, not-quite smiling. Of course, if he'd smiled he'd have given himself away.

He admitted to the incident with the baseball bat. He claimed not to have seen her for 10 years. He feigned concern, but Shawn could tell he was thrilled. He'd always known they'd find him, and he was enjoying every second that they wasted scrolling through the pictures of Alaska on his digital camera, digging through his unorganized filing cabinet, and examining trunk of his car.

"That's actually a bomb shelter," Keith said, walking over to Shawn. "Most of the houses in this neighborhood have them. I use mine for storage."

"Mind if I go down there?"

"Knock yourself out," Keith said, pulling a ring of keys out of his pocket, unlocking the hatch, and throwing the door open.

Gus followed Shawn down the steep stairway into the small cement room, which was lit only by one florescent bulb. It was filled with boxes, most of them containing old clothes, old books, old papers, and the like. "Gus, check along the walls, see if there's a door leading to another room," Shawn ordered.

"There's not," Keith said as he sat down on the steps and watched Shawn fumble with his crutches in the tight space. "I don't know what they were thinking when they built this place."

"Perhaps that the Russians would drop a bomb and we'd all die if we weren't in shelter," Gus suggested.

"I'd rather die then live the rest of my life in a little hole like this," Keith said. "Don't you think? One room, artificial light, canned food. You know, when I bought this place it was fully stocked—enough canned food for 5 years, they said. The old man who lived here before me was a real nutter."

"That's what comes of watching _Dr. Ziago_ too many times," Shawn said as he struggled with a box full of old copies of the Santa Barbara Mirror. Why anyone would keep three-year-old copies of a newspaper instead of recycling them, Shawn could not guess.

"I think you mean _Dr. Strangelove, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb,_" Gus corrected.

"I've heard it both ways," Shawn commented.

"No you haven't," Gus replied, shaking his head. "And I don't think there is anything down here but dust."

"I could have told you that," Roberts said. "But I'm just trying to be open and helpful."

* * *

"Oh, come on," Shawn protested as Keith Roberts' locked his door behind them. "She's right next door. Why not?"

"Because we've already wasted enough time on this, Spencer!" Lassiter said angrily as he walked down the small path to his car. "This was a dead end. I can't believe I let you talk me into this."

"This was not a dead end," Shawn said. "I can feel—"

"You can't feel anything!" Lassiter yelled, yanking the car door open. "We all know you followed your gut and your gut was wrong. Now, it's time to go back to the station and see if FBI and their actual investigative efforts have turned up anything."

"Fine, go!" Shawn said as Lassiter got in the maroon sedan, and his father, opened the back door, ready to follow. "I'm staying. I'm talking to Mrs. Avala. And she's going to tell me what Roberts is hiding and I'll find Juliet before the FBI even notice you're there."

"Shawn, you can't stay," his father said. "Lassiter has the only car."

"I'll walk home," Shawn said. As if to prove his point, he started hobbling forward, past the car, and towards Mrs. Avala's house.

"You can't walk home," Henry said with a skeptical laugh. "You're exhausted, and you have no idea how to use your crutches. I bet you couldn't even walk to the corner."

"Then I'll call a cab," Shawn said, continuing his trek across the driveway.

"Shawn wait," Henry said with a sigh, closing the car door and jogging over to his son – blocking Shawn's path. "You have to slow down, and think."

"Crimany," Lassiter muttered, pulling himself out of the car. "Are we going or not?"

"I wouldn't bet on it," Gus said as he walked up.

"I've thought about it Dad," Shawn insisted, looking his father boldly in the eyes. "We are so close. It's Roberts, I'm sure of it. All we need to do is find the one thread that unravels the whole thing."

"And you think his next door neighbor, Mrs. Avala, is that thread?" Henry asked.

"She is his alibi, Dad," Shawn said, focusing all his persuasive attention to his father. Lassiter was a good detective, but he wasn't much of a leader. He'd follow the group's consensus. Gus was loyal and would follow Shawn anywhere. But Henry was the key. If Shawn could convince him, then not only would they all go over to talk to the old woman but Shawn would also know his theory was sound. "All we have to do is prove he lied about where and when and we can take him in."

"But we know he didn't lie," Henry insisted. "I just spent an hour flipping through photos of Roberts and Avala on an Alaskan cruse."

"There's a hole," Shawn insisted.

"They were still on the camera. I checked the history; they were all taken in the past week. The camera's date is correct too, by the way, I didn't forget to check that."

"You're focusing on the wrong facts," Shawn said angrily. "Maybe he and his 67-year-old next door neighbor did sail around the Bering sea together. But why, Dad, why? What 30-year-old guy wants to spend his vacation with the widow next door?"

"I don't know, Shawn," his father admitted, without giving any ground. "But it happens. Harold and Maude."

"Aston Kutcher and Demi Morre," Gus added from his position, safe behind the car.

"That's not helping, Gus," Shawn fired back. "Besides, Demi Morre is hot and Harold was a horny, depressed fourteen-year-old who would have done anything to get anyone in the sack."

"Well, maybe he should have stolen a car," Henry said.

"Don't make this is about us," Shawn yelled at his father. "This is about Juliet. We are so close. We can't stop now. Mrs. Avala's house is right there. All we have to do is ring the doorbell."

Henry stared at his son coldly, and Shawn stared back. Gus and Lassiter both watched, fascinated. The Spencer's were strong willed. It was impossible to guess who would win.

"They ever done this before?" Lassiter asked softly, hoping neither Spencer noticed their commentary.

"No," Gus said. "Usually one of them gives in long before this."

"Dad, please," Shawn said softly. "I couldn't stop him from taking her. I have to find her."

"You'll do it," Henry said, "whether I let you or not. Won't you?"

"She's close. I can feel it."

"Shawn, you aren't psychic, you can't feel things."

"I can feel things," Shawn insisted. "And it's too soon to drop this lead."

"I'll make you a deal," Henry said. "No matter what we find there, your next stop is the hospital."

"But, Dad, if there are clues . . ."

"If there are clues, Lassiter can follow them up. But you and I are going to the hospital."

Shawn opened his mouth to protest, but Henry didn't give him the opportunity. "Look kid," he said gruffly. "I had one of the worst afternoons of my life. I got a call from the police telling me my son, my only son, was in a car crash, and was being held for ransom because of some hair-brained case he took without police back-up. Now I'm watching this same son run himself ragged because he _feels_ like it. Considering all that, I think I'm being very accepting, very supportive. But I will only go so far— I can only watch you go so far."

"You don't have to be here," Shawn said, as if he hadn't heard his father's speech at all. "Gus and I . . ."

"Four hours ago, I didn't know if I'd ever see you again. You think I'm letting you out of my sight?" Henry demanded.

"Well, seriously, Dad, you'll have let me out of your sight eventually," Shawn retorted flippantly. "Unless you want me to move in again. Which, I suppose I could—rent free, of course. And we'd have to put my bike in the garage."

"Spencer," Lassiter yelled. Both men turned to look at him, which seemed to startle him. "Detective O'Hara?"

"Keith Roberts is the kidnapper and Mrs. Avala is the key," Shawn said. "Let me go just a little bit further."

Henry sighed and looked away. "Fine," he said angrily. "But, I'm serious Shawn. Once we're done with this you're going to the hospital."

"Great," Shawn said. He wanted to jump up-and-down with the thrill of his victory, but he was much too tired. "I know exactly how to get what we want. Just follow my lead."

* * *

"Hello," Shawn said, smiling as sweetly as he could at Mrs. Katherine Avala. She was a motherly figure, with short white hair badly permed, large tortoiseshell spectacles, wrinkled hands, and a yellow, toothy smile. "My name is Shawn Spencer, I'm with the Alaskan tourism board. We were informed that you recently came back from a cruise in the Bering Sea."

"Why yes," Mrs. Avala said. "How did you know?"

"Because I'm from the Alaskan Tourism Board," Shawn said, surprised that he needed to explain something so obvious. "We keep track of that."

"Really?" The woman asked.

"Actually, yeah," Shawn said nodding. "We're taking a survey of people who've recently traveled to Alaska."

"Really?" she asked again. "All of you?"

"Yes," Shawn said. "All of us. This is Captain AnTeniel from our cruise review department," he said, motioning to his father. Then he pointed to Lassiter and said, "Severus Snape, from the Northern Lights Division, and Running-Eagle-Falls-Down-Cliff," Shawn motion to Gus. "From Native American Affairs."

"Oh," Mrs. Avala said, nodding, wide-eyed. "Yes."

"We'd like to talk to you about your trip. Do you have a minute?"

"I suppose," she said. "I just got back."

"Yes, we know that," Shawn said.

"This is your key witness, Shawn?" Henry asked softly.

Shawn ignored his father's comment. He'd assumed Mrs. Avala was an easy mark—after all, Keith Roberts had convinced her to cover for him so he could stalk and kidnap someone. Shawn had always liked easy marks. "May we come in?"

Mrs. Avala's living room was charming. Thanks to the plastic covers on the goldenrod living room set, the couch and arm chairs looked as new as the day they were purchased, over 30 years ago. The gold and cream wallpaper with gigantic bamboo print meshed with the burnt-orange shag carpet, and Shawn was sure that the old 36in TV in the TV cabinet had not made the digital transition.

"Now, can I get you gentlemen anything to drink?" Mrs. Avala said.

"No," Lassiter snapped. "We need to ask you a few questions."

"Severus, you may not be thirsty but Running-Eagle and I are parched," Shawn said. He turned and smiled at Mrs. Avala. "I don't suppose you'd have anything in a lemonade?"

"Well, no," Mrs. Avala said. "But I could make some if you'd like."

"Gee, that'd be swell," Shawn said. "If it's not too much trouble."

"No trouble, no trouble," Mrs. Avala said as she scuttled into the kitchen. "You gentlemen just take a seat and I'll be right back."

Once she was gone, Gus slid into one of the armchairs and, with the lack of friction, almost slid out. Henry went over to the far wall, where dozens of pictures were hung and started examining them. Lassiter stepped up to Shawn and said, in a low, threatening voice, "What the hell do you think you are doing?"

"We did Roberts your way," Shawn said. "We do Mrs. Avala my way."

"And what way is that, exactly?"

"I'm just following the spirits, Lassie. I usually have no idea where they will lead me."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" Lassiter grumbled.

Shawn sank onto the plastic-covered couch and took a deep breath. The clues were here. Roberts had been meticulous in cleaning the clues out of his house, but Mrs. Avala was not a meticulous person—the over-filled dusty curio cabinet proved that.

"I can't believe you're just going to sit here," Lassiter said. "Shouldn't we be interrogating the old woman?"

"Dad, what did you tell me when you found cigarettes in my backpack in sixth grade?" Shawn asked as he grabbed a pile of catalogs out of the magazine rack and started flipping through them.

"People lie, stuff doesn't," Henry said. He'd moved on from the photos and was now examining the bookcases.

"You had cigarettes in your backpack in sixth grade?" Gus asked with a scoff. "Dude, how stupid are you?"

"Stupid enough to know it would get me grounded," Shawn said as he flipped through an Eddie Bauer catalog. "And I wouldn't be allowed go on the field trip to the police station the next day—which meant I was saved the embarrassment of having to be pegged as 'Officer Spencer's Boy.' Added bonus, I could stay up late and watch the Godzilla marathon on channel 5 and sleep all day at school."

"Did you really do that, Shawn?" Henry asked.

"I don't recall," Shawn said, putting down the Eddie Bauer magazine and picking one up from Sunsetter Awnings. "It was a long time ago."

"This is such a waste of time," Lassiter muttered. "I could have walked back to the station by now."

"Waste of time, Lassie?" Shawn asked, as he put down his awning catalog and picked up the next publication in his pile. "What do you think of this?"

"Is that what I think it is," Gus asked, leaning forward in his chair to get a better look at the mailer.

"I don't know," Shawn said, handing it to Lassiter. "Let's ask the detective."

"This is a newsletter from the Crystalline Temple," Lassiter said. "But she wasn't on the list of members."

"Check the address label," Shawn said. "To Mrs. Katherine Avala or current resident. She got put on a mailing list somewhere along the line."

"Probably by her niece or daughter," Henry said. "One of the girls in the pictures over there was wearing a crystal necklace. There's a clear family resemblance."

"Was that last month's newsletter?" Gus asked.

"Yes," Shawn said as Lassiter was scanning the first page for the date.

"Check page three," Gus said. "There should be an article about Shawn and me."

Lassiter flipped to the page and found not only an article, describing a séance Shawn had held for the entire temple, where he divined that the culprit was really a mischievous eight-year-old, but also a picture. "Spencer, are you wearing a bathrobe?"

"Not now, no," Shawn said, flipping through an American Girl Doll catalog. "Why do you ask?"

"And a turban?"

"I think he's talking about the picture," Gus explained.

"And who is Magic Head?" Lassiter asked.

"The lemonade is ready!" Mrs. Avala said from the kitchen.

Shawn quickly put down the catalogs. Henry walked over to the couch and sat next to his son. Lassiter remained standing by the door, still reading the temple newsletter.

"This is instant, you know," Mrs. Avala said, handing Shawn a large plastic glass filled with cold lemonade. "I hope that'll be all right."

"That'll be fine, Mrs. Avala," Henry said. "Thank you very much."

"Oh, look, you put little slices of strawberry in it," Shawn said. "How sweet."

"Mrs. Avala," Henry said, leaning forward. "We understand that your went on the cruise with your next door neighbor, Keith Roberts."

"Yes," Mrs. Avala said, nodding enthusiastically. "Keith is such a dear. I was just telling him how I'd always wanted to see the northern lights and so he said 'Well, Ms. Katie'—he call's me that, Ms. Katie—isn't he sweet—he said 'Well, Ms. Katie, we can make that happen.'"

"Wait," Gus said. "Are you saying he paid for the trip?"

"He did, bless his heart," Mrs. Avala confirmed. "The whole thing."

"Well, that's exceptionally generous," Shawn commented. "He must be very found of you."

"Keith is very generous," Mrs. Avala confirmed. "When the bank was going to foreclose on me, he bought this house—and let me stay in it."

"That's amazing," Gus said.

"I try to pay rent—but he doesn't want money. He says he just wants a mother. His died when he was just a baby, you know."

"No," Shawn said, even as he remembered Mrs. O'Hara talking about speaking with Keith's mother when he was stalking Juliet. "I didn't know that."

"Yes, poor dear. He says all he wants is Sunday dinner and a little company now and then. I bake for him of course, and mend his clothes, and give him vegetables from my garden . . . ."

"You have a garden, really?" Shawn asked enthusiastically. "I don't suppose you could show it to us."

"Well, of course I could, sweetheart," Mrs. Avala said. "But I don't know what that has to do with Alaska."

"It's a very detailed survey," Gus explained.

* * *

Juliet was able to grope along the wall and find the lights. The bright, flickering fluorescents against the white walls did nothing to help her pounding headache but she tried to ignore it.

The first thing she did was eat the soup Keith had left for her. He had gone to a lot of trouble to get her into his little white room, she reasoned, so he must have wanted her alive. And if he wanted her alive, he wouldn't poison the soup. She felt much better with something in her stomach. Granted, breathing still hurt and the waves of dizziness and nausea could flare up at any moment but they weren't nearly as bad.

When the bowl was empty, she went over to the door and inspected it. She banged on it, and it made a hollow sound, while the walls around it sounded solid. She thought it was probably made of reinforced steal, and it was locked. The vent above the door was only about a foot wide and six inches tall. With enough work, Juliet knew she would be able to pry it open, but she didn't know what possible good it could do.

Giving up on the door, she turned to the cabinet. She expected it to be locked, but it was not. The doors swung open easily and showed Juliet the last thing in the world she expected to see, and the one thing that scared her more then anything else.

The cabinet was full of clothes, nice, brand new, blood-red clothes.

Juliet looked through the fitted t-shirts, stylish skirts, cozy sweaters, and even a few elegant dresses. She remembered their uniform at the ice-cream parlor, so long ago. They'd all had to wear red polo shirts. Juliet had complained it several times that red didn't' flatter her at all; but Keith had always said it made her look sexy.

The top shelf had a box on it. Carefully, Juliet pulled the box down and looked in it, then she dropped it in horror. Red bras and panties tumbled onto the floor.

Juliet sank down on the cot and looked up at the wardrobe. This wasn't _Ruthless People_, as Shawn had optimistically suggested. This was _Misery._

To be continued . . . .


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Mrs. Avala's back yard was very different from Keith Roberts'. While they were both framed with old chain-link fences, his had been brown and bare, with nothing more then an old wooden picnic table and a charcoal grill; hers was lush and green. She had several rose bushes, all of them perfectly trimmed, growing up lattices on the back of her house. The left side of the yard had a beautiful flower garden while the right side was dominated by an orange and a lemon tree. In the back right corner was a large, orderly vegetable garden. In the back left corner there was a small shed, only about 4 feet by 4 feet, made of gray cinder block. It had a heavy metal door with a modern, combination lock built into it.

"You must really be afraid of people stealing your trowels," Shawn said as he approached the fortified shed.

"Oh, no, I don't use that," Mrs. Avala said with a chuckle. "That's the old bomb shelter."

"Really, a bomb shelter?" Shawn asked. "I've always wanted to see the inside of a bomb shelter."

"Shawn, we just saw . . ." Gus started, but Shawn quickly cut him off.

"You know, the whole nuclear scare always fascinated me," Shawn continued. "Living in Alaska, we never had the drills where we climbed under our desk in case of nuclear fallout. We were trained to fight with ice picks and moose guns, assuming there'd be a land invasion. The Governor can see Russia from her house—so there would be plenty of warning."

"Well, I haven't been down there in years," Mrs. Avala said. "In fact, Keith, bless his heart, is the one who got the new door. He said it was dangerous to have it open, without a lock, you know. Vagrants could get in."

"Vagrants?" Lassiter asked. "In this neighborhood? Living in your bomb shelter?"

"He's so thoughtful," Mrs. Avala continued. "He's filling it up with cement. That way no one could sneak in."

"Filling it with cement?" Gus asked. "How big is this shelter?"

"Oh, my Martin was very cautious. It's rather large."

"How large?" Shawn asked. "Could a person live down there—say, kidnap a woman and keep her down there a secret wife?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Mrs. Avala said, her voice reinforcing her confusion. "But, there were several rooms. When the kids were young, sometimes they would throw parties down there."

"That sounds like a big area to fill with cement," Gus said.

"He does it a little at a time," Mrs. Avala explained. "It's very important to him. In fact, the first thing he did after we got home from our cruise was check to make sure the cement he'd pored before we left set properly."

"Oh, Lassie!" Shawn yelled, holding his hand to his head "I'm getting something. . . "

"Don't bother, Spencer," Lassiter said, pulling out his badge. "Mrs. Avala, my name is really Carlton Lassiter and I'm head detective for the SBPD. We have reason to believe that someone is being held against her will in this bomb shelter. We would like your permission to conduct a search."

"What?" Mrs. Avala asked. "Mr. Snape, that's absurd."

"My name is not Snape," Lassiter spat. "It's Lassiter. Do you grant permission or do I need a warrant?"

"Of course you have permission," Mrs. Avala said, she was starting to look very frightened. Finally, Shawn thought, she realized that she'd been played—and not by them, but by Roberts. "But I don't know the combination."

"Not a problem," Gus said, rolling up his sleeves as he approached the door. "I've cracked better locks then this. Time me."

"I'm not going to time you," Lassiter said with disgust.

Gus turned to look at Shawn. "I don't have a watch, buddy," Shawn said with a shrug.

With a frustrated huff, Gus turned his attention to the lock. A minute later, the door swung open and Shawn's heart sank. Unlike Roberts' bomb shelter, which was accessible through concrete stairs, Mrs. Avala's shelter was accessible only through a long, vertical ladder.

"I can't go," Shawn said softly.

"No worries, Spencer," Lassiter said dramatically as he pushed past Gus. "If she's in there, I'll find her."

"I'm going too," Gus said, following Lassiter down the ladder. "We'll be right back."

Shawn watched his friends descend into the dark hole that may, or may not have swallowed Juliet. All he could do was wait, and he hated waiting.

* * *

"Call 911," Shawn told his father as he moved to the edge of the shaft leading to the shelter. "Last time I saw Jules I couldn't get her to wake up. She could be in a coma."

"There's a woman down there?" Mrs. Avala asked. She was clearly shaken by the realization that her benefactor had lied to her. Shawn let her stew with that information. The longer she fretted over it, the more talkative she'd be when the police started asking questions.

"Gus, buddy," Shawn yelled down the hole. "What's down there?"

"Freaky stuff, Shawn," Gus's voice came back. "It's a living room—full of Ikea furniture."

"Uh," Shawn said. "How _Blast from the Past_. Anything else?"

"Lassiter found a duffel bag down here," Gus yelled. "It's got a Nixon mask in it."

"That's it," Shawn yelled. "We've got him!"

"Oh, Keith!" Mrs. Avala gasped.

"Shawn," Henry said. "Come over here."

"In a sec, Dad," Shawn said dismissively.

"There's more," Gus continued. "The wall is covered with news paper clippings about Juliet's cases. Only, all our names are backed out."

"Our names are blacked out?" Shawn asked. He remembered the box of newspapers in Roberts' bomb shelter. He'd noticed a few of the dates; July 16, 2006—the day after they had unraveled the mystery at the spelling bee, August 26, 2006—the day after they saved the Malcontent and comic book executives from a fiery death at Tri-con, March 4, 2007—the day after Juliet's undercover case at the Sorority House ended. Suddenly, the timing of the kidnapping fell into place. Shawn understood everything.

"Shawn," Henry said soberly. "We need to talk."

"No," Shawn said, not bothering to look back at his father. "You need to call the hospital. She's down there."

"Why," Mrs. Avala moaned pathetically. "Keith . . . I don't understand."

"There's a hallway leading to more rooms," Gus yelled up.

"Go," Shawn yelled. "Get her!"

"Back away from the shaft, Shawn," Henry said. Now he was using his 'angry-father' voice.

Shawn rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to fall down there. I'm perfectly balanced."

"You won't be once I shoot you," Keith Roberts' dark voice said. The statement was accentuated with the unmistakable click of a handgun being cocked.

Shawn took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He'd been so focused on Juliet that he'd forgotten his surroundings – a child's mistake. Mrs. Avala had not been asking hypothetical questions, and his father had not been over protective. They were reacting to a deranged man with a gun.

"You going to shoot me in the back of the head, Keith?" Shawn asked as he carefully scooted around, so that his back was to the shaft and he was facing his kidnapper. "That's not very clever. That's not very foresight-full. That's not you at all."

"I should have killed you in the van," Keith said. He was standing on the other side of the fence behind the flower garden, pointing his gun at Henry and Shawn alternatively. He looked terrified.

"You probably should have," Shawn admitted casually as he slowly and awkwardly approached his kidnapper. "But what would Jules say?"

"She thinks I did kill you," Keith said, turning to focus his gun entirely on Shawn. "I told her you were dead. It doesn't matter."

"Really?" Shawn asked, glancing at his father, hoping the old cop could see the plan that was perfectly obvious to Shawn. "Did she cry?"

"Not for you," Keith said.

"But she did cry," Shawn insisted taking another small step forward and locking his eyes with Keith's. "I can sense it. There was a letter—a letter you sent to Juliet right after she left the mountains. You told her everything. You bared your soul."

"She didn't care!" Keith shouted angrily.

"Tears!" Shawn shouted back. "I see tears flowing down her pretty face—tears of anger and fear. She was seventeen. She couldn't handle the intensity of your emotion—the depth of your love. She didn't answer."

"I tried to explain," Keith said. There were tears in his eyes now, but he still kept the gun level, and pointed at Shawn.

"Letters, letters, so many letters," Shawn continued, inching just a little closer. "Hundreds of letters you wrote but she didn't read any of them. I . . . I see her mother throwing them away. Her mother trying to protect her from you."

"I would never hurt her," Keith said. "I love her more then anything!"

"If only she could know," Shawn continued. "You had to figure out a way to show her. But the letters hadn't worked and life had moved on. She went to college, studied abroad, lived on the other side of the country. You couldn't possibly reach her.

"But then it changed." Shawn said, changing the tenor of his voice from a pounding intensity to softer, methodical, reasoned tone. "Her name started appearing in the newspaper. Fate had brought her back to you."

"Yes," Keith said. "It was fate."

"The problem was you knew she would still be afraid of you. You couldn't risk scaring her off. Her home number and address are unlisted, so the only place you ever knew she would be was in the police station. You couldn't possibly approach her there. You had to get her alone—alone for a long time—long enough that she would realize that you were made for each other. That's when you hatched a very devious plan.

"You knew if Juliet ever went missing eventually someone would come and question you. But no one would think to question your sweet, simple, next door neighbor. Mrs. Avala was losing her house—a house had an extensive bomb shelter—the kind of shelter you could hide a person in for a long time, maybe even years. You bought the house for Mrs. Avala, making her deeply indebted to you. You told her, to protect her, you'd fill the old bomb shelter with cement. But you weren't filling it with cement. You were filling it with furniture, and clothes, and food—with everything you would need to play your twisted little game of house with Juliet."

"Keith, is that true?" Mrs. Avala asked.

Roberts hesitated, Shawn took a step closer and changed his voice again, this time to sound as excited as he knew Roberts must have felt as the events unfolded. "Then you got it. The invitation to Gina O'Hara's wedding. Gina and Juliet had been close as girls—you knew Juliet would come. You booked a trip to Alaska with your neighbor. She owes you everything, so you knew she would lie for you, claim you came back a day later then you did. You tricked the airports, too . . ."

"He traded tickets with another man on our cruise," Mrs. Avala said, very helpfully. "He said his sister was having a baby. I lied. I said it was true."

"Your alibi firmly established, you called the family from Alaska and asked to be told everything about the wedding. You seemed like a caring friend but in fact you just wanted to know when and where Juliet would be and who she'd be with. You couldn't believe how lucky you were when you realized I was her date. You could buy time by blaming the kidnapping on my enemies. You sent the police on a wild goose chase, while patiently waiting for the right time to take Juliet to her new home."

"You told me you were embezzling money from the bank," Mrs. Avala said. The poor old woman sounded heartbroken. "You told me no one would ever get hurt."

"No one got hurt!" Roberts shouted. His eyes were panicked and his gun shook. Shawn knew he'd nailed every detail of Roberts' plan. Now all he had to do was convince the kidnapper to put the gun down. "I just needed to sweep her off her feet!"

"The throbbing pain in my leg begs to differ," Shawn said. "As does Juliet's concussion. If you really loved her, you would have taken her to a hospital."

"You know I love her!" Roberts said. "You're psychic, right. You know those things!"

"I know you're in love with the idea of being with Juliet," Shawn said softly. "But you don't know her. Maybe you never did."

"I thought you understood," Keith said.

"Let me tell you what I understand," Shawn said. "While you were listening to me rattle off your story, my father snuck out of this yard and into yours. He's right behind you now and about to take you out with a Judo chop."

"Wha?" Roberts said, foolishly turning to look behind him, where Henry Spencer was not. During the moment that his attention was diverted, Shawn lunged at Robert's gun-hand, putting his full weight on the man's fist, slamming it onto the top of the fence, and forcing him to drop the gun into a bed of tiger lilies. Shawn fell, too, unable to catch himself with his useless right leg, crushing the delicate orange flowers, but also catching the gun.

Roberts realized instantly that everything changed. Grabbing his wrist, which was almost certainly broken, he turned and started running across his yard, towards his driveway.

"Stop!" Shawn yelled as he pointed the gun in the air and let off a round before aiming it at Roberts' back. "I worked for three weeks at a pheasant farm and I'm a really, really good shot."

Roberts froze in his tracks.

"Dad," Shawn said. Suddenly, he felt out of breath and light-headed. He hoped his father had fulfilled his part of their unspoken plan. "Did you make the call?"

"Ambulance is on its way," Henry said kindly. "Cops too."

"Good," Shawn said. "Now, do you think you could . . . ."

"Make a citizen's arrest?" Henry asked. "No problem."

* * *

Juliet had heard muffled voices through the vent. She was fairly sure there were two of them and she did not want to know any of Keith's friends.

She climbed on top of the old chair, to have a more advantageous position from which to attack and grabbed the vicious club she'd constructed out of the wire hangers in the red wardrobe. Thankfully, Keith, like most men, hadn't concerned himself with proper clothing care. If Juliet were going to buy someone a perverted wardrobe, she would have hung all the clothes on huggable hangers, coated in velvet, which neither damaged the clothing nor became tangled. Also, huggable hangers could not be twisted into a weapon.

The latch on her door clicked, and it was pushed open quickly. "O'Hara," a very familiar voice called—but not before Juliet swung her club at the man's head. She couldn't stop the arch of her swing. Nor could she keep him from stumbling out of the room, hitting the wall behind him, and falling to the ground.

"Carlton!" Juliet screamed, jumping off her chair and rushing to her injured partner. "I am so so so sorry!"

"Juliet!" Gus yelled from down the hall. He ran towards her and suddenly she found herself in a strong, affectionate hug. "We're so glad to see you."

The hug was comforting but quickly turned painful and he exerted pressure on her fractured ribs. "Gus, let go, let go!" she screamed, far more shrilly then she meant to. Gus quickly stepped away from the embrace as she stepped backwards, leaned against the wall, and wrapped her arms around her throbbing torso.

"O'Hara, are you okay?" Lassiter asked seriously. He'd gotten over the shock of being clubbed and was pushing himself up off the ground. Blood was streaming down his face from a cut on his forehead. Still, she could tell that he was overjoyed to have found her.

"I'm ok," Juliet managed to say, smiling at both of them through her pain. "Just a little worse for wear. Carlton, I am so sorry, I thought . . ."

"You thought I was Roberts," Lassiter said. "Understandable. In fact, I'm very impressed with your improvising, Detective. I'll be sure to mention that to the Chief before your next review."

"Thank you," Juliet said, looking around to see if anyone else had come to her rescue. There didn't appear to be any SWAT or paramedics, for which she was grateful. But, she had expected Shawn. She had felt, with unshakable certainty, that if anyone was going to find her, it would be him. The only reason she could possibly imagine that Gus and Carlton would save her, and Shawn would not was . . . was something she didn't want to dwell on. "Now," she said curtly. "If you don't mind, I would really, really like to get out of here."

"No problem," Gus said. "Follow me."

Gus led Juliet through a maze of horrible rooms. Each one was filled with furniture and accessories—the place was set up like a real house. Keith was prepared. He'd had no intention of ever letting her go.

She was so relived to come to the ladder leading to freedom that she almost cried when she saw it. The dizziness that had been crippling when she was in the van with Shawn flared up as she tried to pull herself out of the pit Keith had thrown her in. She had to pause several times and wait for the world to stop spinning. But eventually she made it. Gus, who'd climbed up before her, grabbed her hands and pulled her out. The warm sunlight touched her skin and the cool breeze flowed through her hair. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, savoring the feeling of freedom. But her moment didn't last long, because almost immediately, Shawn's voice broke the peace.

"Jules!" he screamed.

Juliet's eyes snapped open and she turned to his voice. He was hopping towards her on one leg, smiling like a fool. The tears bust out of Juliet's eyes—tears she had been holding back since his voice had awakened her in the dark van. Keith had said Shawn was dead. She hadn't wanted to believe it, but when he was absent from the rescue party, she assumed that was the reason. She hadn't asked because she didn't want to have her deepest fears confirmed. But here he was, goofily hopping towards her, so relived—no, thrilled to see her safe and sound. Juliet rushed towards him and they met in the middle of the garden. He wrapped his arms around her but didn't squeeze, the way Gus had. He just held, and she felt safe.

"I am so sorry, Shawn," she said. "I never imagined . . ."

"That going to your cousin's wedding would get us kidnapped?" Shawn asked with a light chuckle. In the distance, Juliet heard sirens. "It's not your fault. I'm the psychic. I should have seen it coming."

"He told me you were dead," Juliet said. She wanted to stop crying, but she couldn't.

"That was wishful thinking on his part," Shawn told her. They sirens were closer now. "He knew he couldn't stand the competition."

Juliet laughed and pulled away. The sirens were very close and Juliet could see the flashing lights out of the corners of her eyes.

"But, Jules, honestly," Shawn said. "How relived were you when you woke up and discovered you'd only been kidnapped by a crazy stalker, and not sold as underground model?"

As the paramedics ran into the back yard, Juliet laughed again.

**The End**


	8. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

"_Ghost Busters_," Juliet said excitedly.

"Oh, tough one," Shawn said. "_Buster and Billie__._"

"I've never heard of that."

"It was released in Sweden," Shawn explained.

"Fine," Juliet said. "_Billy Madison__._"

"_Madison Avenue_."

"_Avenue X_."

"_X Men_."

"_Men in Black_."

"_Black Hawk Down_."

"_Down with Love_."

"_Love Story_."

"_The Story of Us_."

"Us?" Juliet said.

"_The Story of Us_." Shawn repeated.

"Can I substitute U.S.?"

"I think that'd break the rules in a big way," Shawn told her.

"Fine," Juliet said, searching her brain to think of a playable title. "Us . . ."

"Us what?" a third voice said from the doorway.

Shawn started at the unexpected voice. Juliet smiled and said, "Abigail, how nice to see you."

"Hey Abigail," Shawn said, spinning his wheel chair around so he could look at the girl he was dating. He didn't want to call her his girlfriend, that seemed a little to heavy for the light, fun, flirtation they had. But still, it felt very odd, having Abigail and Juliet in the same room. He felt like it would be cruel to flirt with either of them in front of the other. He also felt like it would be suspicious if he stopped flirting. He certainly wanted them to get along—but he was terrified to think of what would happen if they became friends.

"Hi Juliet. Hello Shawn," Abigail leaned over and kissed him on the top of the head. He smiled up at her adoringly, but wished that Juliet hadn't seen the display of affection. "Per your request, I brought you a pineapple," Abigail continued, pulling the large fruit out of a canvas bag.

"Oh, that's great!" Shawn said, eagerly taking the fruit. "You know, I asked Gus to bring me one, and my Dad to bring me one, but they both brought balloons. I tried to explain that I was no longer an eight-year-old and fascinated by floating mylar. If I could untie the balloons and make my voice all squeaky like Gary Coleman, that'd be different. The chief sent over a nice bouquet, though."

"She sent me one, too," Juliet said. "She has exquisite taste in flowers. And I thought Carlton's gift was especially thoughtful."

"Lassiter brought you a gift?" Shawn asked, stunned. "I thought he didn't do gifts."

"Yeah, he brought me this cactus," she said, motioning to a small potted Early Flowering Mammillaria Marksiana on the table next to her hospital bed.

"Oh, a little prickly plant," Abigail said, "how thoughtful."

"He didn't bring you anything?" Juliet asked, genuinely surprised.

"Now I feel hurt," Shawn said, looking at the plant. "I really thought he cared."

"Well, I know what will cheer you up," Abigail said. "I happen to have a huge bag of cheesy popcorn in this bag."

"Oh, that does help," Shawn said.

"And, a copy of _Toy Soldiers_."

"Is that the one with the kid from Star Trek and the fat Hobbit?" Juliet asked.

"Yes," Shawn said. "And it's awesome! Why don't we throw it in right now? You don't mind, do you, Jules?"

"Ah," Juliet said, glancing at Abigail. "I don't think so. My mom's going to be coming over soon with a video of the wedding."

"Oh, that sounds fun," Abigail said, though she didn't sound quite sincere. Shawn realized that Abigail didn't know what wedding Juliet was talking about. Shawn had told her that he and Juliet had been working on a case. Fortunately, Abigail didn't seem to care.

"Do you want us to stay here and keep you company until your mom gets here?" Shawn asked. "Abigail is a killer at the movie game. What was our record in high school?"

"Forty-seven minutes," Abigail said. "And I beat you with _Clockwork Orange_."

"You guys go," Juliet said. "Seriously, my mom will be here any minute."

"Are you sure?" Shawn asked. "I don't want to abandon you to merciless boredom."

"Shawn," Juliet said with a smile on her face, but not in her eyes. "Don't make me tell you to go with Abigail again."

"Right," Shawn said, nodding soberly. He swallowed his regret and smiled at her. "I'll see you later."

"Later, Shawn," Juliet said as Abigail wheeled him out of her room.


End file.
